house and wilson bros before hos

It's Not Easy (introduction)

So--this is a touchy subject. It's a probably-T-rated House/Wilson friendship fic; it's fourteen "chapters" long. I hope you'll like it, and I'd really appreciate any comments you have... please?

Introduction



My mother once said ‘I always taught my daughter that she should leave any man who raised his hand to strike her. But I never realized that I would have to teach my sons that lesson, and I regret it.’”



--Terrance Ang



To love an enemy is impossible by simple human willpower, but through Christ, for Whom all things are possible, it can become a sweet fruit on the tree of our faith.”



--Brian Savelkoul



Let’s say you hear the word “abuse.” What’s the first thing you think of? Take some time to consider your answer.


It is easy to hurt someone. This is unfortunate. What is even more unfortunate, however, is the fact that we who believe we are an incredibly advanced civilization persist in inventing new ways to kill each other. As such, when you hear the word “abuse” what you should think of is not drunken belligerence or black eyes or children’s shelters, though those are related. What you should think of when you hear the word “abuse” is pain. Because that’s what abuse is. It’s pain.


Sure, there are reasons to inflict pain on others—psychological, political, social, personal. You go out and beat some guy’s face in with a tire iron, odds are you had a reason. It may not be a good reason, but you probably had one anyway. If you didn’t have a reason, there’s a word for that. Insane. People hurt other people because they want to. That old myth your parents told you when the school bully shoved you in a locker for wearing a tie—he’s just jealous? It’s true. Of course, knowing it’s true is not much of a consolation when your kneecaps are being introduced to your eyeballs. But I digress. The point is that a person inflicting abuse may have a reason to do so or require counseling—the reason, however, will never excuse the behavior.


Anyone can abuse anyone else. That’s a fact. Learn that fact and accept that fact. If you can’t accept that fact, you’re reading the wrong book. But before I scare you all off, hear this. This story is not about abuse.


Really, you ask? Yes. Why? Because abuse is bad. Admit it. Pain is bad. If you like pain, there’s a word for that too. Masochistic. That’s not entirely it though; I could write a story solely about abuse. I could very easily. Would you want to read it? Probably not. People like hope; life is nothing without hope. Pain is bad, hope is good. Hope of escaping pain is even better. This story is about hope.


I’ve said already that anyone can abuse anyone else. Pain is not particular. If you want to hurt someone, regardless of who they are, you probably can. All of us have been hurt in some way at least once; some of us are unlucky enough to be hurt in some way more than once. Some of us are really, really, really unlucky—unlucky enough to be hurt in some way a lot. Society as a whole tends to deal with this; if we hear that a man has been beating his wife we want to lock that man up—if a father beats his daughter we want to lock him up too. “The tireless efforts of many feminists and other activists to highlight the severity of wife abuse brought domestic violence under the microscope of public scrutiny… and set in place policies and practices which offered a more constructive solution to the problem of wife abuse and a relatively safer place for women to live in.” This is a big stride from past eras, when it was generally acceptable and ignored for a husband to hurt his wife. Of course, that doesn’t mean people aren’t going to be hurt any more. People will still be hurt. It just means society is trying to do more to prevent it.


Notice, however, that so far I’ve been talking about male perpetrators. There is a marked downside to society’s domestic violence bias—for years we concentrated so much on the idea that women are victims that we now have a “marked shift of relevant policies from a pro-husband to a pro-wife position, a bias in favor of abused wives and against abused husbands (who are being ignored and disbelieved), and a new philosophy which equates spouse abuse (and domestic violence in general) with wife abuse, where husbands are the primary perpetrators and wives the primary victims.”


What does this mean? Essentially, that when society hears a woman has been abused it is angry and when society hears a man has been abused it tends to either believe otherwise, laugh, or ignore the situation entirely. This is not the absolute truth and it is not what happens every time, but it tends to be the outcome. In fact, many don’t really understand that husbands are abused at all.


“[S]ociety seems to be blind to the idea that women can be abusive and men can be the victims,” says a man from Singapore. “I was clueless—until I became one of them…. In the last major confrontation that [my wife and I] had, I ended up lying at the bottom of a bridge with her hands in my mouth and a fist to the side of my head. Only one man, a Caucasian, offered to call the police. Everyone else walked past. Had I laid a finger on her, there is no doubt that every passersby would have rushed to her aid.


“It is a golden rule that men simply do not hit women—a man can walk away from a woman, but never hit her. Yet, whenever we see a woman hit a man, our assumption is that the man deserved it. I know that my actions did not justify her violent outbursts, but people would assume I was at fault. I remember being hit several times with a bag containing a laptop at an MRT station. The… staff approached me as if they wanted to deal with me.”


Sad? Yes. True? Yes.


Listen to these statistics.


A survey was done on 200 women from 36 international universities. Of these, 60% said it was okay for women to hit their husbands, and 35% admitted to assaulting their partner. 8% admitted injuring them—these injuries were bruises, cuts or broken bones. Worldwide, more than 4,800 female students approved of assaulting their partner. “The bottom line,” says the co-author of the study, “is that we need to make the same ‘big deal’ about violence by women as we do about men who behave violently.” And that’s not all. Recent studies show that some 835,000 men are attacked yearly by girlfriends or wives—and those are just the ones who admit it.


So I’ve been flinging numbers, interviews, and information at you for awhile—mainly because seeing so much shocking news at once tends to have greater impact. Keep in mind that I am in no way attempting to undermine the reciprocal side of domestic violence—husbands hurting their wives—merely saying that we as a country, as a nation, as a world are making a tremendous mistake by failing to understand husband abuse as well. Ready to hear a little more? We’ll be done here soon.


“[Men] were kicked, hit, stabbed, pushed down stairs and through plate glass doors. Like their female counterparts, the men often covered up for their wives…. As one man said, ‘I’m supposed to take it like a man.’ That often means not fighting back, not only because all the men on [the Oprah Winfrey show] said they were raised not to hit women, but also because many police departments automatically consider the man the aggressor in cases of domestic abuse.”


Is that bad enough? One man kept his wife’s abusive secret for twenty-one years before finally leaving her—and when the police were finally called, he was the one arrested. He now has temporary custody of their children after his wife, angry because he returned them late, rammed his car with hers while they were inside the vehicle.


Evidence suggests that abuse of wives by husbands is decreasing, while abuse of husbands by wives is increasing. “Cal State Long Beach professor Martin Fiebert has… 117 different studies with over 72,000 respondents that found… most domestic violence is mutual and, in the cases where there was only one abusive partner, that partner was as likely to be female as male…. [W]omen are much more likely than men to use weapons and the element of surprise… often includ[ing] guns, knives, boiling water, bricks, fireplace pokers and baseball bats.”


This story is about hope. It begins and ends with the aim that you, the readers, will close the book and walk away informed. Abuse and domestic violence are never good—they are always wrong. Sadly, society tends to discriminate even when it agrees. After a significant amount of work, we have bypassed that in regards to female victims. Hopefully, with the same amount of work, we can bypass it in regards to men as well.


Anyone can hurt anyone else. If we understand it, one day we can stop it. Ignorance is not bliss—ignorance is ignorance. But this story is about hope. Enjoy it. Learn from it. And the next time you have a chance—do your part to help.

  • Current Music
    Top Of The World - Mandy Moore
house and wilson bros before hos

It's Not Easy

A/N: I understand that this piece of work won't be for everyone. It deals with a subject which is not only difficult but nearly untouched; the abuse of a husband by his wife. Thus, my warning. There's nothing excessively graphic in this story, but there are mentions of abuse, and if you don't want to read it please do me a favor and don't. I am in no way attempting to mock or make fun of a situation such as this--I'm merely writing about it--so please don't imply that I am. If you feel that characters' responses or actions are extremely unrealistic (I can't just say unrealistic because the entire story is pretty much unrealistic), I hope you'll let me know. Anyway, you're here, so you probably want to read it, right? xD Here it is.

Oh, shoot. One more thing. I forgot to mention that there is no slash intended.

It’s Not Easy

Prologue


It was Monday morning, and James Wilson, M.D. was running late.

To Wilson’s credit, however, he was not entirely responsible for this tardiness. Perhaps the greatest blame for the shameful slip-up should have been placed on his wife, Julie. You see, the night before Wilson had come home ten minutes after five—dinner time—and she was seething.

Wilson pushed gingerly at the door to Princeton-Plainsboro, wincing with the onrush of another brief flash of pain and wondering where House had gotten to—his motorcycle had not been in its normal space when he pulled up, and Wilson hadn’t seen him on his way into the hospital either. At the moment, though, Wilson wasn’t sure he wanted to run into House, or, for that matter, anyone else. His shoulder throbbed where he had hastily bound it upon waking, and he felt fairly certain there was a new bruise forming on his hip—he brushed against the briefcase of a patient, let the door swing gently shut on his heels, and amended his previous remark; he was absolutely certain there was a new bruise forming on his hip.

In his mind, Wilson began to list the things he had to do that morning. This was a tactic he had adopted recently, and one he employed on a daily, sometimes twice-daily basis. Reviewing his plans in an organized, calm manner diverted his thoughts; it allowed him, briefly, to focus on something else and even to temporarily forget the events of the past hours entirely. But as he walked forward, his own briefcase swinging from his left hand and his right shoulder uncomfortably stiff from its hasty medical treatment, his heart sank to the pit of his stomach at the unpleasant realization that the hazy haven of memory loss was not on the agenda that morning.

Waiting by the clinic, glaring at him rather menacingly, hands folded before her chest, stood Cuddy.

“Good morning, Lisa,” said Wilson. He attempted to slip quietly past and make for the elevator. Unfortunately, he was not as quick as he would have liked. Out of practice, he assumed; House could have made it in ten seconds flat, and he was missing a significant amount of thigh muscle. Wilson thought that was just another part of a base difference between the two of them; while House held no qualms at all about running away from a potentially unpleasant situation—funny, him being a man who couldn’t run at all—Wilson had stopped running years ago. And he’d paid for it ever since.

Cuddy did not make a move to uncross her arms; in fact, if such was even possible, her grip tightened. “Dr. Wilson,” she said, standing motionless and (handily enough) in his way, “you are three hours late.”

Wilson knew for a fact that, regularly, he was never more than five minutes late, and rarely even that small amount. Lately, however, he had begun coming in later and later. Thus far, three hours was his record. He supposed he should have expected Cuddy would say something to him; they were, after all, friends—of a sort. The problem was that they were also boss and employee, he was extremely late, and she had just caught him. He paused a safe distance away and gave her a shy smile.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and thought rapidly for a plausible excuse, “but I was getting a ride with House, and—well, you know how he is about being anywhere on time.” There, he thought, that should do it.

“No dice.”

Wilson blinked. “What do you mean?”

“No dice,” Cuddy repeated, with a quick, mournful shake of her head, “I’m afraid that’s not going to wash, Wilson. You see—although, for all I know, this may well be a sign of the Apocalypse—House arrived at eight. He’s been here for two-and-a-half hours.”

At this, Wilson shook his own head and momentarily closed his eyes. Whenever he needed the man to be late—well, wasn’t that Murphy’s Law for you? The only thing he could think was—busted. Busted busted busted. This was it. He tried weakly to flex his right shoulder, testing his mobility, hoping to ward off the panic he knew was inevitable, but his efforts were to no avail. His own bandaging job proved too much of a constraint. Busted, his mind reminded him again, and he felt the blood rush from his head. His vision shimmered and grew fuzzy. His legs began to tremble. He took a deep breath—

And collapsed in a dead faint.

Wilson’s briefcase hit the ground as he did. Its clasp broke with a snap and it gleefully abandoned its mountainous contents in a snow-like flurry of creamy paper and black ink. The clinic patients sitting nearby turned their heads curiously to see what was going on—a doctor’s illness was a nice distraction. Meanwhile, one of Wilson’s forms drifted peacefully up to the air vent, where it slid through the grate and disappeared.

Cuddy shook her head again and paged House.


I.


When Wilson next opened his eyes, he had a Foley.

While the Foley was certainly not his most important concern, it was, at the time, the most pressing. Beside the fact that he hated the things—the immodesty which came with them (somebody had to set it up, didn’t they?), the fact that they were a bit more uncomfortable than he usually found tolerable, and the way they effectively restrained his mobility—a Foley could have meant only one thing, and that one thing was the one thing he definitely did not want.

A Foley meant that he, James Wilson, was in hospital.

Given, the admission sounded a bit foolish coming from an oncologist, but Wilson had not been in hospital for ten years, since he broke his leg in two places skiing with some college buddies, and he did not intend to start the practice again soon. It was not so much a phobia as it was an incredibly severe dislike. Wilson considered himself a fairly private person—well, except when he was drunk, but House was the only one around then—and if there was one thing besides good food that you could not have in hospital, it was privacy.

And on top of that, Julie would kill him.

At this, Wilson shifted his eyelids from half-shut position to panic mode and began making a very credible effort to sit up. He got his head about three inches off the pillow (what were those things stuffed with, rocks?) when he realized something both rather alarming and very important.

He, James Wilson, was not only in hospital—he was tied to the bed.

Wilson twisted his hands quietly back and forth for a moment, trying to test his restraints. Sure enough, his wrists were bound by thick leather straps to the bed rails, and he could do little more than flex his fingers. The rough edges of his bindings chafed against the wrist he’d recently sprained; he sighed and, in annoyance, stopped resisting. In hospital and restrained. He began to feel sympathetic for the patients who actually required restraints; in truth, he’d experienced few things more degrading. It was when he waggled his feet back and forth beneath the blanket and found his ankles were bound as well that the reality of the situation began to sink in. He could not get up, and he had no idea why. If this was the current punishment for being late, a Foley and a set of restraints, why wasn’t House suffering too? He shut his eyes and was about to indulge himself in pretending to be somewhere else, far away from wives and Foleys and bindings and House, when he heard a voice.

“Dr. Wilson?” it said. “Are you all right?”

Wilson, of course, knew right away who it was—one of House’s fellows, in particular one by the name of Allison Cameron. He sighed to himself and, with more than a little reluctance, pried open his eyes once more. She was standing by the door smiling at him. He could tell by the look on her face that the façade was rather flimsy, and he wondered what bad news she had found out and whether it had anything to do with why he was bound to the bed.

“I’m fine,” he said, though he felt far from it. His wrist ached, he couldn’t move, he felt sure he was bleeding through the bandage on his shoulder, and the bruise he’d noticed earlier was throbbing away in full glory. In addition, he was currently wearing a hospital gown, and Allison Cameron was… staring at him. Did he miss something?

“You gave Cuddy a real scare.”

“What happened?” Wilson asked.

Cameron smiled weakly and made a few hand gestures in an effort to decide exactly what she should say to that. Wilson essentially filled in the blanks for himself—something bad had happened and she didn’t want to tell him about it. He tried to mentally retrace that morning’s activities; he remembered arriving, missing House’s bike, running into Cuddy, coming up with a lie which should not have come true but somehow, by some cruel twist of fate, did anyway… and then nothing until the Foley. He was fairly sure that, provided he were motivated to, he would be able to remember earlier events, but he worked so hard for blissful ignorance most of the time that he didn’t mind indulging in it when he actually had a proper excuse. He sighed—he was supposed to have seen a patient that morning, but the whole three-hours-late deal pretty much screwed that up.

Cameron was still grinning at him.

Wilson liked Cameron—he wasn’t interested in dating her (he was not quite as much a player as House or the hospital rumor mill made him out to be), but he felt a strange kinship with her, and she was oddly fascinated by him. She was, by no means, the only one who found his friendship with House odd, but she was one of the few who found it intriguing. And as if that weren’t enough, Wilson personally believed Cameron preferred to like everyone anyway. He did not have a close friendship with her but a sort of acquaintanceship; it was true that House was his only real friend (after all, that was all he had—a job and a stupid, screwed-up friendship), but if he were to have a second, he thought she’d be a pretty good candidate.

At the moment, helpless and bound to his own bed like a patient in the psych ward, he remembered telling Cameron “You’d be surprised what you can live with,” and he felt the truth of his statement finally hit home. He was surprised by what he could live with—and he guessed she was, too. Everyone had their secrets, right? Everyone lied.

“Did I faint?”

Cameron nodded. Wilson suspected she was pleased by the relatively mild question. “Collapsed right in the clinic,” she said. “The janitors will be digging your papers out of the air vents for weeks.”

“My papers?”

“Your briefcase broke,” Cameron said. “The fall was probably too much for it.”

Wilson knew Cameron would really have appreciated more avoidance, but, for his sake, he had to get back to the topic at hand. “Why am I in bed?” he asked, “if I only fainted?”

“It was, uh,” Cameron began, “a bit more than that. You see—”

Luckily for her, she was cut off just then by a direct, rather imposing thudding noise on the door to the room. It was a loud noise, so Wilson instinctively flinched a bit. He knew what was making this particular loud noise, however, and so did Cameron. She stood back a foot or two and the door swung open.

“I haven’t taught you well, have I?” said House. The expression on his face, if what was there could have been called one at all, was utterly unreadable. Wilson was completely caught off guard. He blinked.

“Huh?”

House turned to Cameron and leered at her in a particularly suggestive fashion. She sighed, sent another cheery smile in Wilson’s direction, and took the hint.

“Bye, Cameron,” he said, wondering if a sort of lopsided four-fingered wiggle counted as a proper wave and doubting it but trying anyway. Once the door was shut, House turned back to him and maintained a blank stare which went on until something caught up with Wilson, exhaustion, embarrassment, injury, who knew, and he closed his eyes.

Big mistake.

“Fainting’s a real girly thing to do, you know,” came a voice about four inches away from his nose. “I thought I taught you better than that. Did you at least get a chance to look up her skirt? Otherwise, you lose, dude.”

Wilson’s eyes sprang open about halfway through the first sentence; he let out a frightened squeak and reflexively strained a bit against the restraints, but the pressure on his wrist was too much. House’s eyes narrowed rather dangerously. Wilson did not really consider that a good sign. “Sorry,” he said, “cheated on the test and all that. Learned that from the best though. And as for the skirt, I’m—” he stumbled over the word “—married.”

“You know,” House groaned, “I never thought I’d even think this, but—”

“Oh, please, House, this isn’t the best place to propose—”

“We might actually have to—”

“Wait for Aspen, much more romantic that way—”

Talk,” House finished, then sucked in a very large, very exaggerated gulp of air as if the word had simply been too much to get out. “Damn it, I need a drink.”

“Look,” Wilson said, forcing himself to be serious, “while I’m tied to a hospital bed probably isn’t the best time for anything—”

“Oh, I can think of something—” said House, leering at Wilson in a particularly suggestive fashion, which Wilson found highly disturbing but chose to ignore in favor of more important discussion.

“Let alone talking,” Wilson spat. “Since when are you Mr. Rogers anyway? And why, damn it, am I chained to the damn bed?”

Wilson didn’t think he’d ever seen House drop his gaze before, but he did. There was, surprisingly enough, silence for a moment. Then, “Apparently, Wilson, you’re suicidal.”

If Wilson hadn’t known the message was serious simply by its contents, he understood the weight it carried by the fact that House used his name. House hadn’t called him anything other than “you” in years. But the “suicidal” part was enough for him. He shut his eyes again and wondered how he’d ever get out of that one. On second thought, he wondered why they believed he was suicidal in the first place. The Boy Wonder oncologist with a less-than-perfect life? It was enough to send half the nurses into shock.

In the air vents above Wilson’s head, the form which had been the first to fly up there continued silently on its journey.


II.


DNA is a really cool thing,” said House. “Did you know that? I bet you did, Wilsie.”

Wilson’s eyes were shut again. He was still chained unmercifully to the bed. By the sound and direction of House’s voice, Wilson guessed he was sitting sprawled on one of the visitor’s chairs. By the sound of the television he hadn’t known he had, Wilson guessed General Hospital was on. Wilson had never been very good at ignoring people, and the current time was no exception, even though House had intentionally become more and more annoying by the minute in the name department and Wilson was fairly certain that any nurses walking by would promptly decide he was gay.

“I don’t see where you’re going with this,” Wilson said. He was still tired and so he kept his eyes shut. Keeping his eyes shut also made it easier to ignore House.

“DNA,” House repeated. “Learned about it in med school, didn’t you, Jimmy-poo? Nah,” he interrupted himself, “don’t like that one. Anyway, I’m pretty sure we all did. Amazing stuff, that. Just need a little bit and those cool dudes in the blue suits can figure out about anything. Like, oh, I don’t know, who to arrest. A strand of hair’s good enough. Think you shower that well, Wilsie?”

“You watch too much Cops,” Wilson muttered, “and I still don’t see where you’re going with this.”

“I don’t believe you’re suicidal,” House said.

This was interesting. Perhaps he had an ally after all. Wilson cracked open one eye. General Hospital was on. He ignored it. “You still haven’t told me why they think I’m suicidal,” he said, “and why haven’t you left yet? I think it’s lunchtime. Don’t you have some food to steal?”

“Why would I steal some, Wilsie, when I have your lunch?” House said. “It’s so much more fun this way. And better-quality stuff too.”

“Look,” said Wilson again, for the second time that afternoon, “my name’s Wilson, not Wilsie, and I want to know why everyone in the hospital seems to think I’m determined to off myself. Can’t you be serious for five seconds and at least explain that?”

House paused and eyed the television. He was quiet for a minute—for House, being serious always took considerable exertion—then he said, still without returning his gaze to Wilson, “Looked at yourself lately?”

Wilson blinked. “Huh?”

“Do I have to spell it out for you?” House yelled angrily, twisting back around in his chair. “You idiot, you look like hell, you’ve been sleeping in your office all week, you’ve got about ten damn scars, and you fainted in the damn clinic. What do you think people are gonna believe? That you spend your weekends on the good ship Lollipop?”

It was too much for Wilson. He hated himself, oh, he hated himself for being such a wimp, but it was too much at once. Too much after what had happened that morning—which, he hastily reminded himself, he wasn’t going to think about. He began, involuntarily, to shake. His bindings jerked back and forth in a pitiful, bizarre rhythm as he trembled. House, not being an idiot, was fully aware of what was happening; he sighed and got to his feet. For a hesitant moment he made as if he might undo the bindings, but Wilson could not help flinching as he approached, and House shook his head and left the room without glancing back. Wilson, afraid, helpless, frustrated, and unbearably angry—at House, at himself, at the hospital staff, at the leather imprisoning him, at the Foley, at the ridiculous gown, at Julie, at the world—lay still and began, silently, to sob. He cried to himself until he once more was able to recover his composure, and when he had he cried again, because—thanks to his wife—he could no longer wipe away his own tears.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------


Cuddy was not terribly surprised by the fact that House was waiting outside her office when she returned. It was really starting to become a regular occurrence, and, though her secretary found him rather disturbing and harbored a secret fear that he was the Unabomber, she discovered that she didn’t mind. Even though it meant she had to put up with him, she enjoyed having the company. She was not young any more, she never had liked being alone, and her office tended to get awfully quiet when there was not a scruffy, hulking, six-foot-tall doctor-cum-teenager leaning on his cane and griping in the middle of it.

Today he was waiting in the hallway outside, and he looked more angry than usual. Her secretary’s desk was notably empty. That was no surprise.

“I can’t believe what you’re doing!” House said, as soon as he spotted her approaching.

“What do you mean?” she asked, stepping rather nimbly around him and unlocking her door. This, too, was becoming routine; he would follow her in and explain, as irrationally as possible, his latest complaint—probably about his latest patient, she thought, and something I’m not doing, or not doing to his liking, or, most likely, not letting him do—she would explain, much more rationally, why things were the way they were, and he would sneer, make some biting remark about her clothing, and storm out, usually already coming up with a way to get around her. Aside from her secretary’s recent increase in therapy bills, the situation worked. Patients generally lived and she hadn’t been sued—not in the past month, anyway.

Dealing with House was all about strategies, compromise (when necessary), and games. Once you got the hang of it, you could handle him. He was not often as cruel of a man as most of the staff believed him to be, though he could do a fine job of living up to his reputation—there was something oddly respectable about him which kept people around. Otherwise, she thought, and laughed, he would’ve been lynched already; if not by Foreman, then by a patient. Perfect grades in medical school the man had and she’d swear her father’s retriever had better social skills.

Of course… the leg. That was a large part of the reason why she tried so hard, fought so hard to make sure he didn’t get himself killed. That and the fact he was one of the best doctors she’d ever had.

Not today, though. Today he was ready to go for the jugular and Cuddy found herself wanting to hide out with her secretary. If she’d just known where the woman was, she might have.

“Are you insane?” House said, banging his cane on the ground angrily, once, twice. A painting on the opposite wall vibrated and fell askew. “Do you enjoy torturing your doctors? Is this some new kink of yours?”

Cuddy sighed and took a much-needed deep breath. “What,” she said, upon exhale, “are you talking about?”

“James Wilson. Head of Oncology. Remember, Pied Piper for all the bald little cancer kids?” House hissed. Yes, Cuddy decided, “hissed” was the best word for it.

“Calm down, House, and explain so I have at least an atom of knowledge regarding what, exactly, you mean. What about Dr. Wilson?”

“He is chained to a bed,” House said, biting every word neatly off like rapid-fire pellets from a machine gun, “humiliated, devastated, and beat nearly to death, though he would never admit to any of it. And your damn staff is calling him suicidal. You know Wilson as well as I do. Suicidal? It’s his damn wife, not a Gillette in the tub at midnight, that’s for damn sure, and I—”

Cuddy held up a hand. “Three things, House. First, I had nothing to do with this. Wilson fainted at my feet and I had a meeting, so I paged you to take care of him. It’s not my fault if you didn’t answer and someone else got there first. We are, if you’ll remember, in a hospital.

“Second, if someone is hurting Wilson, he needs to call the police. You can think it’s his wife all you want, but unless you can come up with some kind of proof, you’re going to have to get him to admit it. I have no idea one way or the other.

“And third—” She paused. “Third, House, why do you care?”

House stared at her. “I’m cruel,” he said, “but I’m not that cruel.”

Cuddy was silent for a moment, and then she nodded. “I’ll make sure he gets set free,” she said. “You’re right. The man fainted, he didn’t slit his throat.”

“Good,” said House, and with that he turned and left.

Despite the seriousness of the moment, Cuddy laughed when her secretary poked her head up from behind her blotter and slid quietly into her seat again. Then she took her pager and set about the business of removing one of her best, most reputable doctors from suicide watch. Of all the things to be doing on a Monday—and for Wilson, of all people. What were the odds?

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------


In his lifetime, Wilson could not remember ever feeling more relieved than he did as the nurse on duty undid his bindings, her fingers deftly sliding along the leather like a magic trick. She said nothing about the drying salty tracks of tears on his cheeks or the way he shrank back when she leaned too close, overly-painted lips brushing together mere inches from his eyes and musky, flowery perfume flooding his senses. When he’d thanked her and she left him alone again, he adjusted his bed to a proper sitting position—he didn’t feel well enough to get up yet—tried to cover himself more effectively with the thin hospital blankets, rubbed his eyes with one hand, and settled down to study the insides of his eyelids for a bit. House, in his insulting, blunt way, had been right; he did look like hell. He felt rather like it as well, and he intended to amend the situation as soon as possible. He could do nothing for the scars he bore on his forearms and upper thighs but hide them, which did not work so well when he had to wear a hospital gown; that was, he thought, probably why whichever staff had found him on the floor had deemed him suicidal. He certainly didn’t look sane, and he didn’t blame them—he would’ve done the same thing.

Wilson shifted his head an inch or so in order to arrange it more comfortably on the pillow and closed his eyes. For the first time in a little too long, he thought, he might get some sleep.


III.


Julie’s face wrinkled when she was angry.

The rational part of Wilson’s mind realized that, under the circumstances, this was a rather odd thing to notice, but the irrational part, the part which focused on things like survival instincts and sheer, unmitigated fear, considered it the perfect mental focal point. A safety blanket. A binky, if you would. Thinking about the way Julie’s face wrinkled meant he didn’t have to think about the other things she was up to—didn’t, of course, make them disappear, didn’t make them hurt any less, but provided—at least—a brief mental respite.

When they’d married, her face was smooth. But it wrinkled when she was angry.

Wilson’s situation was complicated, ironically enough, largely because he’d spent so many years trying to be a gentleman. By the time he realized that saving himself meant he would have to inflict pain on his wife, she had taken too many liberties, gone just a bit too far. Done just a bit too much. Crossed the line. He tried to fight her off, tried to fight back, but when she was not attacking him with anything she found handy, she was screaming, cursing, telling him he was worthless.

And eventually it happened.

She began to make him believe her.

It was two days into his Christmas vacation when Julie first tried to break him. They’d had a fight and he’d found himself sitting hours later, bruised and swollen, at a chair in the kitchen, idly scratching Charlie and clutching like a lifeline the same shirt which had just ignited her fit because she’d smelled another woman’s perfume. He’d tried to hold her off, and he did try, but he could not bring himself to injure her. She’d wadded the shirt up and pushed it to his nose, screaming for him to confess his infidelity, and at first he smelled only Downy, but as time went on the scent of clean laundry transformed into that of the hot woman in radiology. And perhaps he had had an affair with her. He couldn’t remember. What if he had? She wouldn’t hurt him if he didn’t deserve it. She loved him.

Didn’t she?

The worst part was not that he’d confessed. The worst part was that, an hour later, he couldn’t remember the truth any more.

That afternoon he’d shed a single silent tear into Charlie’s fur and retreated for hours to his office at PPTH. He showed up at House’s with a six-pack and the latest Girls Gone Wild on Christmas Eve and spent the evening eating Chinese, listening to House’s version of James Taylor, drinking their favorite beer, and icing his knee—he blamed the swelling and sprain on a running accident and was too tired to be perceptive when House didn’t believe him. He had another fight with Julie because he stayed out on a holiday, but he didn’t miss New Year’s Eve. That night the throbbing of his ribs accompanied the dropping of the ball. His main problem, when he fought back, because he refused to merely sit and be wounded, was that he simply could not hit her as hard as she hit him, hard enough to hold her off. His main problem was that he still loved her.

He began to mark time by his injuries.

Exhaustion, for the most part, kept him from realizing that people were slowly beginning to catch on. It clouded his senses and overwhelmed him at the oddest of times. He found himself becoming instinctively afraid of things which had not bothered him in the slightest before. He had to give up tennis because he was no longer comfortable around the ball, which seemed to head rapidly for your face just when you least expected it to; she threw things at him. She screamed at him; he watched as his confidence was depleted. When she got close enough to throw a punch, he’d restrain her or even punch back, but she quickly learned and found other ways to injure him; while he was sleeping, or from across the room, or with her newly-discovered sharp tongue. He had never cheated on Julie, but he became so afraid of accidentally, perhaps subconsciously, doing so that he often prevented himself from so much as looking at other women for fear he might jump them.

He adapted his wardrobe so that, regardless of what he wore, where he went, his scars would not be visible. She was wearing him down with her deprecation, the candlesticks she liked to wing at him, and the lies she fed him until he nearly accepted them as truth. He was ashamed—horribly ashamed; he was a man who’d been beaten by his wife, and if that was not the epitome of spinelessness, he thought, what was? And even if he were to try to get help, who would he ask? What could he do? He needed her signature to get a divorce, and he’d been with her so long that—the worst part of all—he was becoming afraid to try.

She’d find out. He knew it. She’d find out.

Oh, God, no, she’d find out!

“Wilson. Wilson.”

It was an Australian accent. Julie didn’t have one of those, did she? For a moment he couldn’t remember; then it hit him.

Shit. Princeton-Plainsboro.

Wilson opened his eyes and blinked once or twice. His sight was rather fuzzy, and he soon realized that this was because there was a light in his face. Chase. He should’ve known.

“What are you doing, Chase?” he asked. “I’m fine.”

“You were hallucinating,” Chase said, somewhat defensively, clicking off the light and taking a step backward. “Moving round and saying all sorts of funny things like ‘She’ll find out!’ Or something.”

“It was a dream,” Wilson said. “Trust me, I’m fine.”

“Sure.” Chase eyed him. “You don’t look so good, you know.”

“I know.”

“Cameron’s a bit worried about you.”

“Cameron’s sweet,” Wilson said wearily. He was tired of conversation, tired of people, tired of pain, but going to sleep didn’t sound like such a good idea either, not if he was going to dream like that again. And just then—oh, perfect timing really—came the familiar pounding at the door. House was back. Before Wilson had time to wonder why, he was in the room.

“Chase,” House said, by way of greeting—Wilson wasn’t sure if it could be considered that, since he’d never really seen House “greet” anybody.

“Er… House,” said Chase, rather warily.

“Done blinding Dr. Wilson? Good. Off with you then. We grown-ups have something we need to discuss, and we don’t want you nosy little Brits eavesdropping.”

“He was having hallucinations,” Chase insisted, desperate to justify the waving of his light in Wilson’s face, and left the room mildly annoyed. House glanced at Wilson to gauge his reaction to the term “hallucinations,” but Wilson shook his head.

“It was a dream,” he said. “That’s it. Perfectly ordinary.” He paused. “Why the visit, House?”

“What, did you forget that we needed to talk already, Wilsie?”

Wilson sighed and allowed his lips to curve into a wry grin. “Just because you got me off suicide watch doesn’t mean you get to call me Wilsie.”

House grinned slyly himself. “How’d you know who busted you out?”

Wilson shrugged with his good arm, feigning innocence. “What do you get when you combine one middle-aged, self-conscious, gossipy nurse and one extremely overactive hospital rumor mill? A news and communications system faster than E-mail, that’s what.” In the act of shifting position, he bumped his injured shoulder. The pain was not much and he only allowed himself to wince for a moment, but it was enough—unfortunately—to remind House of the topic at hand.

“Where’d you get the battle scars, Wilson?” House said. He was suddenly serious, and again Wilson marveled at the rapidity of his emotions. He was not sickeningly sweet, did not even seem, to the untrained eye, very kind, but he went from laughter to solemnity in under a minute, and he eyeballed Wilson in a manner which was not threatening so much as curious and—dare he say it?—perhaps even, just a bit, solely for an instant, caring.

Though he forced himself to acknowledge the fact that he could be imagining the situation, Wilson had not felt like he had a friend in months, and suddenly he did.

This was not like House—oh, no, not like House at all. It was almost creepy.

And Wilson found himself fighting an overpowering urge to honestly answer the question.

Instead, because he was afraid, he dropped the bed back to its horizontal position again, said, “What battle scars?” and got up, ready, for all intents and purposes, to get dressed and check himself out. It was a lovely idea, if he’d just been able to stand up properly. As it was, he staggered rather pitifully, stumbled across the room, and regained his balance by leaning on the door just as Cuddy opened it. He jumped backward in surprise, felt a crack in his left ankle, and landed somewhat abruptly on the floor.

The last thing he remembered before blacking out was House laughing uproariously. Laughing, and reaching out a hand to help him up.


IV.


It was about six o’ clock that evening when Cuddy ran into two of her most valuable doctors—oh, how she hated to admit that—on their way out. If it were not for the solemnity of the situation, she would have burst out laughing; as it was, she found restraining herself was no simple matter.

While ordinarily Dr. Wilson had to match his steps and stride to Dr. House’s, today it was the other way around. Wilson was dressed in his original clothes again—sans tie—looking slightly more normal, but he had a cast on his left ankle due to the—er—accident with the door, he was supporting himself with a pair of crutches, and though he was covering them with sleeves and slacks again, she knew the wounds he had which weren’t going to heal. For a moment she wondered if House had been right about the injuries being the fault of Julie Wilson, and she contemplated the satisfaction of bashing the woman’s face to shreds with a few nice, well-placed blows. Unfortunately, Deans didn’t do such things.

That was, she thought, altogether too bad.

House, on the other hand, looked dapper and dashing in comparison to Wilson for once. His gait seemed to have improved; he wasn’t limping as heavily as per his usual. The humor of the moment lay entirely in the way the two of them looked together. Cuddy knew they were friends, but it wasn’t often that they matched.

As she watched them approach, she noticed a few things which hadn’t seemed so obvious before; Wilson stayed a pace further away from House, rather than moving shoulder-to-shoulder with him; in turn, House seemed to have a pretty good idea when Wilson was becoming uncomfortable, and would either lower his voice a bit or move slightly apart again. Cuddy felt a rush of guilt for failing to understand what was going on previously, but she consoled herself with the reminder that she wasn’t really to blame—after all, who had figured it out? If House couldn’t, the odds were no one could have.

“We don’t need any more Girls Gone Wild,” House said to Wilson in an abnormally loud stage whisper as they came within hearing range, “we have the hottest Dean in fifteen counties.” Wilson sighed and shook his head, but he was still hard put to keep himself from grinning. Even though they’d been talking about her, Cuddy found herself wanting to grin too.

“Wilson?” she said, nearly putting a hand on his arm before she caught herself.

“Yes?” he replied, pausing gingerly and flashing her another of his shy smiles. (With those, she understood the basis for his reputation.)

“The janitors did a remarkably quick job of removing your papers from the air vents,” Cuddy said, smiling, “and you can have them back. I believe they’re all here.” From the bottom of a drawer, she removed a rather thick sheaf of documents, and then she paused, uncertain as to what to do with them; it was clear Wilson couldn’t carry them, and House was already halfway to the door. Wilson was suggesting he try to fix the clasp back on his briefcase when House heaved an exceedingly loud sigh and limped over to them again.

“Give ‘em to me,” he said. “Cane only takes one hand.”

Wilson shrugged and grinned to Cuddy when House was leaving again. “Thanks,” he said, quietly, and then he made a valiant attempt at hobbling, in a dignified manner, away.

When the door swung shut behind them, Cuddy sat down and indulged herself in a private smile. They were good men, both of them; good men, good doctors, and good friends, and when they were with each other, she knew they were in good hands. And that was lucky because, for a Dean of Medicine with far more lawsuits than she felt she deserved, she needed every reassurance she could get.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------


Wilson hobbled alongside House until they reached the parking lot, when he found himself faced with a rather problematic conundrum. They had arrived in separate cars; as such, they should leave in separate cars, and the odds were that once they did they would wind up returning to their separate homes. Wilson’s problem was that he did not want to go back to the house where he lived. In fact, as he stood, balanced somewhat precariously with his crutches, and touched his hand to the door of his car, he realized he was terrified of it. He glanced at House, who was a few spaces down heading toward his Corvette, and let out a weary sigh. It seemed he would have no other choice.

He’d just rested his crutches against the side of the car so he could begin the process of climbing in when he heard an engine behind him and a very familiar voice.

“You going to stand there all night,” it said, “or come watch good porn, eat pizza ‘till you puke, and drown your poor angsty teenage troubles in beer?”

To Wilson, a comfortable night on the couch under a blanket in his own boxer shorts (not an annoying hospital gown) while House griped about his latest case and noodled away on the piano sounded like a much better idea, but regardless of what they wound up doing, he knew he didn’t want to go back to Julie. So he grabbed his crutches again, hobbled over to the passenger side, and clumsily climbed inside when House flung open the door. For a moment, he was able to forget why he didn’t want to go home—and for that, he was grateful.

House glanced over at him after he’d dumped his crutches in the back seat and settled himself with one or two quiet sounds of relief. At first Wilson thought that House was going to say something about Julie, but he was comfortably silent on that topic and instead remarked, “You still look like hell.”

“Gee, thanks,” Wilson said.

At the next stop light, House took his eyes off the road again and said, “You can even look cool in this baby if you’re sleeping in it, you know. It is that awesome.”

Wilson took the hint. The leather of the seat was astonishingly soft, not at all like that of the restraints used at PPTH (he already feared he might have nightmares about those), and it wasn’t more than two blocks before he’d dozed off. He did not so much as snore or stir until they reached House’s place, where House rather unceremoniously blasted Bohemian Rhapsody to provide an incredibly effective wake-up call. Wilson dreamed about nothing at all. It was the best sleep he’d had in a year and a half.

They went inside and amiably bickered for a few minutes over what Chinese to order, as they always did. Wilson examined the contents of House’s medicine cabinet so he could change the bandage on his shoulder; when he removed the dressing, he was pleased to note that the wound had stopped bleeding and begun to clot. The night before she’d flung a fork at him over the dinner table with a surprising amount of force; he hadn’t been able to dodge it in time and had had to remove it from his arm later. The next thing she threw, though, he’d deflected with her favorite china plate, and the episode of flying cutlery was over soon afterward.

House was watching The Princess Bride when Wilson got back to the living room; it was probably House’s all-time favorite movie, which, if you thought about it, was really rather odd, but Wilson didn’t care; for at least one night, he didn’t have to go back. He didn’t plan on thinking about the next until he had to.

House, on the other hand, had altogether different ideas.

Different, Wilson thought idly. Now there was House in a nutshell.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------


Whenever House thought about the events of the day, as he could not stop himself from doing a few times too many for comfort, he wondered about the same thing, and it was beginning to plague him. He and Wilson were, if anything, like brothers. Wilson was the only one who had never left him, and the only one House almost felt he could trust—even then, there were many times when he was still afraid, felt the need to push the boundaries, to see if maybe, if he just pushed hard enough, Wilson would leave anyway. Like everybody else. But House pushed and Wilson stayed, and House pushed and Wilson stayed, and even when House wanted Wilson to go away Wilson stayed, and after a time, though House knew he could never fully trust Wilson—probably could never fully trust another human being again—he also knew he could come close enough. It was comfortable. Wilson needed to be needed, and now Wilson was the one doing the needing, and House had never before quite realized how nice it felt to be depended on by someone else. Not that he’d turn nice and become Wilson or anything. Ties that ugly? They’d just have to kill him first.

As such, the question that plagued him was this: why hadn’t Wilson told him?

In the same abrupt fashion House did everything else (life was so much more fun that way), he turned to Wilson and asked.

“What?” sputtered Wilson, dropping his chopsticks into his lo mein. “What was that?”

As Westley helped Buttercup through the Fire Swamp, House repeated his question. “So why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?” Wilson asked.

“That Julie beat the shit out of you.”

“I never said Julie had anything to do with anything. That was all your idea.”

“So go home to her,” House said. “Prove she has nothing to do with anything.”

House had not known anyone’s face could lose color quite that quickly.

I can prove my side,” he said, with a smirk which was not as pesky as his usual. He leaned over and fished a form from the pocket of his leather jacket. It was, oddly enough, the same form which had been sucked through the air vents at the time Wilson fell.

“See this?” House said, pointing to a telling spot of something red in the upper right-hand corner. “Looks an awful lot like blood, doesn’t it?”

Wilson sat and stared at him. He was utterly silent.

“I bet if I ran this through the lab, I’d have plenty of evidence for you, pal. Like that, for starters. Unless you recently decided to dye your hair blond, I’d be willing to bet—” House jabbed a finger at something on the paper “—that isn’t yours. The blood, on the other hand, is much easier. Speaks for itself really.”

Wilson moved not a muscle, only shifted his gaze to the television. It was time for the wild dog to die in Count Rugen’s Machine.

“You should know better than to fight near work from the hospital,” House said, and then went back to munching his food. Well, he was done. Whether or not Wilson wanted to talk, the ball was in his court. And Wilson had better take advantage of it damn soon, because House didn’t do listening, didn’t do mushy friendship stuff. This time, though, he was beginning to realize that he might actually care. For years, Wilson had cared about him; maybe it was finally up to him to return the favor.

House figured, after all the crap he put Wilson through, he owed him at least that.

And so he muted the movie.

There was silence in his living room for a few minutes and he was contemplating giving up and going to the piano, saying screw the whole thing, he was no therapist, when Wilson spoke brokenly into the quiet.

“I was afraid.”

House didn’t turn to look at him, kept staring at the soundless television screen.

“I didn’t tell you because I was afraid.”

“Of what?” House said. He resisted, with less difficulty than he’d expected, the urge to tell a joke, to cover up feeling with humor again. It wasn’t the time.

“Of—of her,” Wilson said. “It was her, it is her. I was afraid to tell you, and I was ashamed.”

More silence. Inigo and Fezzik were reunited, and Fezzik began trying to cleanse Inigo of brandy. House realized he knew the lines to the film by heart and could say them in his mind along with the characters. He wondered why he still felt the need to watch it.

“I started to believe her. Started to think, after a while, that what she said was true. Started to—to doubt myself,” Wilson said, and trailed off. About ten minutes passed.

“How long?” House asked.

“Few years.”

“How often?”

“Whenever I deserved it.”

At that, House put his hand on the arm of the couch and turned to face Wilson. “Haven’t you learned anything today?” he asked, trying, for Wilson’s sake, not to become too angry.

“That it’s easier than it sounds to convince people you’re suicidal?” Wilson offered weakly.

“That you didn’t deserve it. Didn’t deserve any of it. Nobody,” House said, “and damn it, I mean nobody, deserves that. Not even Vogler, though he might come close. Do you understand me?”

“I get it,” Wilson said, and he sounded exhausted. “It’s just—it’s not easy.”

“What about New Year’s?” House asked, a few minutes later.

Wilson didn’t reply, but House got the idea.

“Listen to me closely,” he said, “because you’ll only hear this once in your lifetime. I care about you. And I owe you. A lot. You hear me?”

Wilson gave a quick, abrupt nod.

“It’s like—I don’t know, it’s like a brother thing, okay? The only one allowed to beat the shit out of you is me.”

“I’m not going to leave,” Wilson said quietly. Now it was House’s turn to be surprised.

“I’m not going to leave,” he repeated. “I know you think I will, but I’m not going to leave.” And House knew what he meant.

“Okay,” House said. “Okay.” So, he thought. This is how it feels to trust someone.

Wilson sighed, long and deep. He felt he was finally providing his problems with a means of escape, letting them into the open air to evaporate in puffs of gas. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the couch.

“You don’t have to go back. Court—you can sue. File for divorce. Like I said, you have all the evidence you need.” House wasn’t good at comforting, but he was willing to give it a shot.

“House?”

House glanced over at Wilson, who was limp. Drained. Pretty much half-dead. And… undeniably relaxed. Maybe even at peace.

“Yeah, Wilsie?” he said, throwing a fortune cookie at Wilson’s head. It made contact with a small cracking sound and split. Wilson reached up and extracted the fortune from his crumb-filled hair.

YOUR LIFE WILL CHANGE FOR THE BETTER.

BE READY.

02146784431190602394587


He grinned and tiredly flicked it back at House.

“Thanks,” Wilson said. He meant it for more than the cookie, and somehow he knew House understood.

House turned the volume back up, and they watched the rest of the movie together, with House running his own quirky commentary every chance he got. When the credits began to roll, Wilson grabbed a blanket from the closet and carefully stretched out on the couch. House wandered over to his piano and began to play.

Wilson drifted off to sleep on the strains of Paper Moon, and he dreamed again of nothing at all. And as the last quiet note faded into the darkness, floated up to the waiting stars, he smiled a drowsy smile at the ceiling and knew, for the first time in years, how it felt to be happy.


Say, it’s only a paper moon
Sailing over a cardboard sea
But it wouldn’t be make-believe
If you believed in me


~fin
  • Current Music
    Scar Tissue - The Red Hot Chili Peppers
house and wilson bros before hos

(no subject)

This is not a slash piece. It is a piece about friendship and, in part, an exploration of what it might be like to be Wilson for a bit. It could be a little OOC; I haven't written much House fic, but thought I'd like to give it a shot. :)

Three Months


It was raining, Wilson thought idly as he leaned against the wall of his office staring out the glass door which led to the balcony. It was raining, and the sky was gray, and the trees trembled in the wind, and the (probably filthy, said his inner doctor) water poured down, and it was oddly appropriate.

He’d gotten the divorce papers that morning.

Looking back, he supposed he’d known it would happen for quite awhile, ever since she started coming home late again, wearing that perfume he knew wasn’t for him, attending meetings of a book club that didn’t exist. But she hadn’t even left him a note. He’d woken up, stretched sleepily, and reached down to greet Charlie, and Charlie hadn’t been there. He’d combed the house, stumbling in half-awareness through the hallways in his boxers, praying desperately that Mrs. Coxey, the doddering old maid from next door, wasn’t looking through the window, calling Charlie’s name. He’d had no luck, and it was when he’d completed his third circuit that the news sank in.

She’d taken his dog.

His dog.

He’d spun around and headed back to the kitchen, and there on the table, easier to see when he was more awake, strangely incongruous amid her cluster of ridiculously elegant place settings, was the familiar manila folder.

The first thing he’d done was have a drink, a nice, tall shot of whiskey, and once he downed that one, he figured if someone was going to have as bad a day as he was, why not start it off right, and had another. And another. And then he thought, well, the day hadn’t improved yet, and topped things off with one more.

They hadn’t touched in three months, two days, four hours, and—he turned and studied the wall clock—twenty-six seconds.

As a matter of fact, no one had touched him in three months, two days, four hours, and—thirty-one seconds now. Not so much as a brush of hands when the bagger passed him his groceries. Not even that.

It was stupid for him to keep track, he knew, but there were times, days, weeks, when he just needed touch. He was tired of walking around the hospital pretending that everything was okay, that his marriage was wonderful, that his job couldn’t be better, aching. And he did ache. The need for human contact was so strong in him that it often became a physical pain, a burning sensation just under the surface of his skin. He wanted—he needed—someone to care for him. But there was no one, because a job was a job, and House was—well, House was House. Oftentimes, when it came to personal matters, the job was more of a comfort.

Admittedly, the first marriage had been his fault. House had told him that he’d been young, a pup, it was acceptable that he’d cheated—House said actually that he wouldn’t have been considered “cool” if he hadn’t and the Gods of Marriage wouldn’t have let him turn thirty otherwise—and tried to reassure him in his own demented way, generally by making sure he was completely wasted and then abandoning him at the nearest bus stop, but Wilson knew House was lying, and Wilson knew the truth. If he’d been strong, if he’d resisted the urge when he knew it was the wrong thing to do, his marriage might have lasted. He might have had a shot.

It was his fault, only his fault.

The second marriage had been her fault.

That one he was okay with accepting.

That time it’d been the pool boy and House had been busy with a particularly hard case. Wilson didn’t tell him—didn’t bother to tell him, what was the use really and he didn’t need another hangover and irate fat bus driver at six A.M. for his pains—until House discovered him sleeping in his office and gave him the Houseian version of a chew-out. That lasted two minutes before Wilson beaned him with the nearest loose object. There was no drunken sympathy because Wilson said he’d been the one who cheated.

(He wasn’t surprised, not really, that House believed him.)

And now the third marriage—the third marriage was her fault, too, but hadn’t he had a hand in things? Maybe if he’d been just a little more caring, just a little more considerate, just a little warmer, just a little more something, she might not have felt the need to find someone else. She might have stayed with him.

She might have left the dog. Damn it, she might have left the dog. He’d loved Charlie. If there was nothing else he loved, he loved Charlie.

And that hadn’t been the worst part of his day. Three patients had had to be informed of their impending death, and two had died. That was five people, five innocent people, dying or dead. Five he hadn’t been able to fix.

Four of them were under the age of ten.

Wilson sighed. The rational part of his mind knew that he was an oncologist and he had to expect death, had to, somehow, come to terms with the fact that he would not be able to save everybody, that it was a waste of time, energy, and spirit to even try. The rational part of his mind glared at him and said, in a voice which sounded remarkably like House’s, “You are a damnable idiot, you know that? If you don’t like dying people, why are you a damn oncologist? That’s what oncology is you know, dying people—well, that and bald people, but if I knew you had that kink I would’ve shaved my head months ago….”

Wilson abruptly shut the rational part of his mind in a closet and padlocked the door. He knew why he was an oncologist; not because he suffered under the belief that he could save everyone, but because there was the fact that, if the timing was right, if he did the right thing, if he was there, he could save someone. Because of him, a person who would die otherwise might live to see their next birthday. Might live to see their child graduate high school. Might—might be cured. And ordinarily that was what kept him going. It was hard, it was always hard when patients died. But it was the most wonderful feeling in the world when they lived. The most wonderful feeling in the world.

House was a diagnostician. Wilson thought he knew why that was too. Being a diagnostician meant that he did not have to be too close to patients. House loved puzzles; he didn’t love people. He’d been through too much to do that again. That was why House could not understand Wilson’s reasons for going into oncology; because there was no way Wilson could completely protect himself from sadness when his patients died, because when you were an oncologist you had to be close, just a little bit, because House believed the profession was useless—the people would die anyway. He didn’t understand the rush that came with knowing you gave someone an extra day to live. That was okay, though. That was why you had diagnosticians, and you had oncologists, and you had immunologists, and you had—well, you had Cuddy. Different strokes for different folks.

Wilson shifted position and pressed his forehead to the cold glass of the window. Drops of rain slid down the panes less than an inch away from his nose, and he began to ache. For some reason, he needed to be out there. Needed the water falling on his body, needed the sense that things would be all right again. Needed the contact. The acknowledgment that someone, something, knew he was alive. He knew he was depressed and sort of hoped that he would not do anything crazy, like jump off, but he needed to be in the rain so badly he thought he might take the risk.

So he opened the door to his balcony and stepped outside.

The city was drenched, the air so thick he couldn’t see more than ten feet without encountering a cloudy gray bank of fog. The skies were pouring. The ground was already puddled. Wilson was soaked within seconds. He took a few steps forward, stood by the edge of the twelve-foot drop, and stared down contemplatively. Not that far really.

Four children, three marriages, and one Wilson, he said to himself quietly.

That was him, standing alone. The cheese stood alone, didn’t it? Perfect. Jimmy Wilson, Cheese. It was a more interesting title than M.D., anyway.

But they’d thanked him. That was the worst part. He could not stand it when people thanked him for telling them they were going to die. He felt like jumping up and down, screaming. Asking him why. He didn’t do anything. He didn’t fix it. They had no reason to thank him.

“Mrs. Ortiz, I’m sorry to tell you this, but I have some bad news.

“Some very bad news.

“Jorge doesn’t have long to live.

“No, I’m afraid not more than three months, tops.”

“Thank you, Doctor.

“Thank you for being my Doctor Wilson.”



“Hey, there are better places to stand than in a downpour. Like maybe under Niagara Falls, if you’re really looking for thrills.”

Wilson knew who it was. He didn’t turn around. Of course not. He didn’t have to. It was the same voice which was currently banging its cane against the locked door of his mental closet. It was House.

Great, he thought.

“Four of them today,” he said quietly, without turning around. He kept staring down at the pavement he knew was below. If he squinted, he could just make out his car through the fog.

“Four what?”

“K-Kids,” said Wilson. He was ashamed of his own voice. It betrayed him. He hadn’t thought he was that sad, that depressed, but suddenly, now that he was speaking aloud, it seemed he was. And he knew that if there was one thing House hated it was sadness. Tears. He’d never seen House shed a one. That was something House would do only in private. It was a weakness. It was something Wilson did only when severely drunk. Last time he checked, four shots of whiskey at six A.M. wasn’t drunk enough.

House stepped forward. “Going to beat yourself up over this, too?” he said, becoming rather annoyed. “If so, can you at least do it inside? I don’t want to get any more wet than necessary. This third leg of mine doesn’t do too hot on wet cement.”

“I c-can’t do this any more.”

“You know, this sounds familiar,” House snapped. “I’ve had enough of the drunken reruns, Wilson. You may be PPTH’s Boy Wonder Oncologist, Cuddy’s whore, but you can’t save everyone, and you gotta learn to stop trying.”

Now Wilson spun around. Tears ran from his eyes and mingled with the rain on his cheeks. He stared at House and thought, in that moment, that he hated him.

“Wait a minute. That’s not all this is about, is it?” The pieces began to fit together.

“No.”

“Who’d you do it with this time? TV repairman? That hot nurse down in ICU? What’s her name… Mandy? Mindy?”

“Look,” Wilson snapped, eyes hardening, swiping angrily at his face with the back of one wet hand, resisting the urge to tell House that the woman’s name was Susan damn it Susan. “I didn’t ask you to come find me. I didn’t ask you for anything, and I sure as hell didn’t ask you for advice.” He stepped forward and brushed by House, grasping the knob of his balcony door and jerking it shut behind him. “I have to go.”

“Oh, no you don’t!” said House, pulling the door open the instant Wilson shut it and following him inside. “No way, Jose, you aren’t getting off that easy. When are you gonna learn they aren’t gonna stay with you if you cheat on ‘em?”

Wilson didn’t even stop. He walked straight into his office, sat down on the couch, removed his shoes, lifted his feet to the opposite armrest, and lay with his face to the wall. This was his way of letting House know that the subject was closed. Of course, he knew House didn’t give a damn.

“Staying here again, I see. Has she filed yet?”

He was right.

“I didn’t cheat,” he said, quietly, in exhaustion. Though he hadn’t felt drained before, the emotions of the past twelve hours were taking effect. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed fervently for House to leave.

House sighed. He didn’t do compassionate, and he wasn’t about to start. “Hey, at least you’ve still got Charley, right, playboy?”

There was a strange noise from the couch. It wasn’t as undignified as a sniffle. It was more of a choked inhalation, and the sound was so destroyed, so torn apart, so sad that House began, for the first time, to feel a bit of sympathy. It was an odd sensation and one he was unused to. He realized that he did not much like it. He limped across the room and harshly poked Wilson’s shoulder.

Wilson didn’t move.

House sighed again. So he was going to have to do things the hard way. He might’ve just left if it had been anyone else, but this was Wilson, and his conscience just wouldn’t let him leave, even if he tried. And, oh, did he want to try. Instead, he grasped Wilson in the nearest accessible spot and pulled until Wilson rolled over to face him. Wilson’s face was contorted with sorrow, his eyes shut as though he thought he might block out the world, and as House watched a sole fat tear slid down his right cheek. As House held his shoulder, Wilson didn’t move.

Three months. Three months since he’d been touched. He didn’t want to, he really didn’t want to—in fact, he found himself hoping House would go as far away as possible as soon as possible—but he helplessly savored House’s cane-roughened hand against his skin (well, through his shirt and that annoying tie Julie loved) as he would have the priciest diamonds.

His wife wouldn’t come near him. Wouldn’t have touched him with a ten-foot pole (probably because he was not a twenty-five-year-old pool boy).

But House would. And House didn’t touch anybody.

“Hey, Jimmy, cat got your tongue?” House said, hoping to piss Wilson off enough to get some kind of a response.

There was no further noise from Wilson, but another tear crept in the path of the first. Wilson didn’t budge. House did, though, hesitantly reaching out a thumb and brushing away the salty drop, because Wilson never cried, hardly even when he was drunk. And he wasn’t drunk. And Wilson groaned quietly again, a sound originating from deep in his soul, a sound filled with so much pain that House frowned and tried to forget that he didn’t do compassion. Because nobody ever needed him and he didn’t want them to, but now he thought someone might and it wasn’t altogether so bad. He thought he might see why Wilson liked being needed so much.

After about five minutes, House said, “Wilson….” He was surprised by how his voice sounded; rough, but unusually… soft. Almost as if he cared. Like a normal person.

That was weird.

“No,” said Wilson. “I’m not all right. Do you know something, House?”

Well, Wilson was talking, so he didn’t have to say anything, right?

Wilson opened his right eye and glanced at the wall behind House. “Three months, two days, four hours, sixteen minutes, and eight seconds. Three months since anyone’s—” Wilson’s voice trailed away. He knew House didn’t go for that sort of thing, and it was an embarrassing admission under the best of circumstances.

House stood silent, tapped his cane on the floor twice, waited.

“Since anyone’s—since anyone’s touched me,” Wilson finished shamefully. His voice cracked and he began quietly sobbing, tears leaking down his cheeks, falling damply onto the pressed collar of his shirt. His heart squeezed violently in sorrow, fear. Pain.

House hadn’t expected that. There was a rather sharp jab somewhere in the area of his chest. He wasn’t used to seeing Wilson cry, but he already knew he didn’t like it.

“Thanks,” Wilson said brokenly, and for some reason, he felt a strange kinship with the young patients he’d spoken to earlier, the children who were grateful when he said they were going to die.

“You’re welcome,” said House gruffly, because it finally hit him that he had to say something, and tapped a finger to another of Wilson’s tears. The droplet glistened quietly against his skin, and he tried to remember when he’d last seen someone crying, or cared remotely about the fact that they were. “I guess now you can stop counting.”

~fin
  • Current Music
    Do I Make You Proud - Taylor Hicks
house and wilson bros before hos

First House fic

“I will prescribe regimen for the good of my patients according to my ability and my judgment and never do harm to anyone. To please no one will I prescribe a deadly drug nor give advice which may cause his death.”

“To please no one will I prescribe a deadly drug, nor give advice which may cause his death.”

“To please no one will I prescribe a deadly drug…”

“Everybody lies.”

Voices echoed mockingly in his head. He heard himself reciting his oath over and over. Nothing he tried would shake the lines loose. What he was about to do was overriding everything he’d spent years telling others. He said everyone lied, yet he was taking one person’s word as gospel. And worse of all, he kept asking himself why. Why.

There was a part of him that knew he shouldn’t want the man to die. That part of him, the part that had spoken up when he’d taken the Hippocratic Oath, the part that kept him awake late at night thinking over and over his patients’ problems when he should have been sleeping—heaven knows he got little enough sleep as it was—was telling him what he wanted was wrong. He’d done plenty of low things in his life, but that was the one thing he could never stand.

He couldn’t do what he knew was wrong.

But he didn’t know whether or not this was wrong, and that was the worst of all. He was questioning his own decisions, and he knew from experience that only led to trouble. He couldn’t keep the man bedridden forever. He couldn’t let him go, either, because the other part of him, the part that wouldn’t let him give Vogler’s speech, the part that sensed—he couldn’t explain it, but it did—when a patient wasn’t ready to go home, was speaking up loud and clear, telling him that there was something wrong with the man, something horribly wrong, and he just couldn’t let him walk out the door.

Was that because his patient was really ill?

That was what he liked to think—but what Wilson said made him start to wonder if it was the truth.

It made him start to wonder if maybe the man wasn’t sick at all. It made him start to wonder if maybe he didn’t really have any reason at all for keeping him here. It made him start to think that he wasn’t keeping his patient for health reasons; it made him start to question his judgment. And that could only lead to disaster.

He sighed. He leaned his cane against the wall and rested his head on his hands. He was tempted to bury his face in his palm like Wilson, but decided against it. That would be reaching a new low. Once he started that, next thing he knew he’d be wearing ugly ties and complaining about his wife—well, if he were married, that is.

He gazed out across the dark city and wondered why he’d quit coming up here.

Then the door groaned, and he remembered.

“He’s sick, paranoid, and you keep hammering him about me?”

He didn’t answer. He wanted to hear the rest of what she had to say.

“And then you run away like a twelve-year-old. Go hide on the roof like you always do.”

Slowly, he turned around. He almost wanted to close his eyes. Hadn’t the removal of his leg been enough? Wasn’t the fact that he was permanently crippled enough? When he woke up pumped full of morphine, floating on a cloud, too drugged to even think but conscious enough to know there was something missing—when his system cleared and the pain hit for the first time—when he told her he never wanted to see her again—when anger still clouded his vision and he finally knew what seeing red really meant—then he’d thought it was enough. He’d thought he’d never want her again.

All he had to do was see her face again to know he was wrong.

And that was why he wanted to close his eyes. But it wouldn’t work because he couldn’t close his nose so he’d keep smelling that distinctive scent of hers, the scent that wasn’t in his home any more; he couldn’t close his ears so he’d keep hearing the sound of her voice, the same sound that he couldn’t bring himself to erase from his answering machine; he couldn’t close his mind.

He forcibly curved his lips into a mocking smile. He met her eyes.

“I haven’t been up here in five years.”

That was all he said, but he knew she’d get the message. Their gazes were locked for a few moments and then she lowered hers; he’d known she would. Neither of them said anything. He shifted his foot and knew he should.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” he admitted. He knew the man was going to die if he didn’t do something. But he didn’t know what; and he thought maybe he didn’t want to find out.

Of course, he couldn’t tell her that. He did owe her an explanation. Some kind of one. Until he decided what he was actually doing.

“It’s not Alzheimer’s,” he said; might as well start at the beginning. “It’s not encephalitis; it’s not environmental; it’s not immunological.” He paused, drew a deep breath. “Every test is negative, every time. He’s perfectly healthy—but his brain is dying.”

She didn’t respond. He thought that was sort of odd. Either she was going to rebel and tell him he was wrong and her husband was fine and not dying at all, or she was going to tell him he was right and demand to know exactly what he was going to do about it. Then she raised her head an inch at a time and he looked into her eyes again and he was nearly destroyed.

She was crying.

The last time he’d seen her cry he’d been lying in bed. The last time he’d seen her cry she’d been asking him to forgive her. The last time he’d seen her cry he’d turned her away. He’d been in so much pain he couldn’t think rationally. He couldn’t think to forgive her.

He owed her something better than that, he thought.

He picked up his cane in one hand and stroked the cool wood idly. She kept her gaze fixed on his. Tears glistened in the corners of her eyes. He couldn’t bear to look at her any more, so he took a halting step, and another, and another, and found himself closer to her than he’d been in years. Five years, as a matter of fact.

He lifted his right arm and put it around her shoulders. Then he did the same with his left. He didn’t know if she was going to respond for a minute—after all, she was married—and his heart nearly stopped until she put her arms around his waist and rested her head on his chest and exhaled a shaky breath, and then it began beating faster than he could ever remember. He wondered briefly if he was going into cardiac arrest and then remembered he was a doctor and should know what that felt like and no, he wasn’t. He settled for rubbing her back and sniffing her hair.

He’d missed her.

“I haven’t given up,” he said quietly.

“So what do we do?”

When she spoke, he felt the vibrations of her words against his heart.

“We wait,” he said, for lack of a better answer. Somehow just holding her made him feel more confident.

She sniffled. Normally the sound would have been unladylike, but with her, it was okay.

“For what?”

This was tricky. “Something to change,” he said. He was about to continue his speech, try to reassure her; try to tell her everything was going to be okay; he might have stayed that way for a little while, but she shifted and he felt the diamond on her wedding ring poke against his ribs, and he looked into her eyes and realized she wasn’t his any more.

And he looked into her eyes and realized he couldn’t lie to her.

So he did what he had to do. He did what he knew was right. And it was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

He stepped back, back out of her embrace, and he told her the truth. Because everybody lied, but he couldn’t.

“It’s one of the great tragedies of life,” he said; “something always…”

She studied him; she was serious, but the effect was ruined by the teardrops in her eyelashes—he wanted to kiss them away.

He couldn’t.

“Something always changes,” he said, and turned away and opened the door and left.

He didn’t look back.
house and wilson bros before hos

xangas

xXxLindaTxXx = Linda Coburn
Swtaznangel1335 = Belinda
lilaznsweetie = Sher
MostlyHarmless_LCHS = big T
willywonka3435 = me. real original usernames hahahaha
house and wilson bros before hos

stuff stuff stuff stuff stuff ETC.... yawn.

just got thru eating my sisters chicken. she watches the food network n then finds recipies online and cooks them. its quite good. yummers :) hehehe. neway i completely forgot wht i was talking about last time i was round here earlier today... *thinks*

o yeah. i mentioned how i tripped and cut my lip playing wiffleball like eight years ago. that was tewwibly tewwibly embarassing. *blushes* i was a real klutz. actually its more like i am a real klutz. xcept for playing badminton im alright at that. yanno for some reason my mind is not workin right now. im trying to think back to when i was younger so i have some stuff to write about in here... but no dice. nope. nothin. o well. ill write about anythin im thinking of right now. tommys in chicago... sherrys who knows where, she wasnt at open gym today, as she prolly had fashion show practice. im not bored at all tho. i was extremely content this evening actually. its been a beautiful day out today w/ the sky a lovely shade of blue and the hills a vibrant green right beneath them... temperature is perfect, flowers are in bloom, the children are outside playing and riding their bikes... who could ask for anything better? hehehe. i love this neighborhood and it really annoys me when people call it a ghetto and say that we are ghetto kids or that we go to a ghetto school. anybody who says that should research what a ghetto actually is before they go around using it as an adjective. anyhoo gonna go now talk to y'all later.
  • Current Music
    Neil Diamond- any song, pick one
house and wilson bros before hos

more stuff about me

i dont remember where i left off yesterday n im really too lazy to go check. so. im 5'6- maybe sometimes 5'6 1/2 depending on how tall my shoes are. my hair is what i like to call a dusty brown. sometimes its frizzy, but not very often and not to a great degree like some people. most of the time its wavy and, every now and then, a bit tangled-looking. i wear it up in a ponytail 99% of the time because i dont think it looks good down at all. i have a rather high forehead. it comes from my mothers side of the family. she keeps her hair parted about halfway across her forehead to hide hers and it works quite well, but i cant do that because i have a cowlick right almost in the center of my head that prevents my bangs from falling straight in either direction. i have long fingers and thin hands, with wrists that are relatively thin but not stick-like either. i dont tend to wear much jewelry (and i cant spell that either), generally i wear a simple watch and thts about it, although lately i have been wearing the bracelet sherry made for me. it has a bell on it which jingles every time i move my left hand and annoys the heck outta everyone w/in hearing range. i do have pierced ears but i hardly ever wear earrings in them so nobody really knows. i have that strange trait where the big toe isnt the longest one. therefore i dont tend to wear sandals very often. i dont like my feet. i dont particularly like my face or my legs either. the only things i actually like about myself are my hands and my eyes, really. its not so much the quality of my eyesight anyway cause im horribly nearsighted but the color. i really like looking at people's eyes, as i personally think theyre very revealing and pretty. however, i also sometimes have a problem meeting your eyes when im talking to you, especially if its a serious conversation. i tend to feel as though im talking down to you and making you uncomfortable so i will grin a lot. thats not a sign of my happiness or anything, it means that im uncomfortable, and it makes me look really stupid. its a bad habit. i have three thin scars on my left knee. theyre from when i tripped over a patio stone in my backyard and cut my knee right open in three places. my father had visited osh earlier and brought home about five large red tiles. he intended to plant them leading from our back door to this cheap gazebo he'd installed. when hed finished my mother let me go outside to look at them. i was really tiny, maybe about five. anyhoo i ran out the back door and tripped smack over the edge of one of the stones hed planted. it was not entirely in the ground right and sticking up a bit. i landed on the next stone and cut my knee wide open. we had to bandage it up and it was very uncomfortable for a long while. the scars are maybe 1/2 an inch apart and the longest one is an inch long. i have another scar on my right elbow. its worse than the ones i have on my knee really because those are hardly visible at all, but its easily visible in the right light. when i was younger scooters were all the rage at the time. kassandra and i each wanted one really badly because her brother gregg had just received one for his birthday, so we were taking turns riding on it. anyhoo my mother wound up getting me one for... i think it actually was christmas maybe... at sportsmart by the walmart in milpitas. she got it as an early present for me at the same time my sister and dave were buying their first cat tower for our kitties. that is the same cat tower i have in my bedroom now although it looked considerably better at the time. i remember it barely fit in our car hahaha and wound up lying right across my lap, straight out the window at the end. y'all can prolly guess that i tore my elbow open off that scooter and youd be right. i tripped in my driveway over a lil rock or something and went smash right down on my elbow, peeling a layer of skin off. i cut my knees and elbows countless times on that thing. it was a freaking death trap. dunno y my mother ever thought she could trust me not to get injured on one. but o boy did i love it. i was and am a sucker for punishment. id take it and go out in our driveway which by the way is not very big- the cement bit is maybe about.... 5 1/2-6 ft across? and maybe 8 ft long... that might be a large estimate... and ride my scooter round in circles for awhile. dunno what i was doing really but i certainly enjoyed myself. i used to take it out all the time- every day if i could.. but my mother wouldnt let me go very far, she was worried about me. thts the story of my life really. i was young though so her worries were justified. this was when i was almost nine. my father wasnt there any longer. thts why i was allowed out of the house. its funny cause even when i know my father was actually in the house w/ us... i dont remember him. seriously. every time i think back its like hes hardly ever there, although i know he was living w/ us at the time. when i was a lil baby he had nothing to do w/ me at all- hed pass me off to my sister- and he didnt get better when i got older, so thats prolly why i dont remember him hardly at all. then when he was w/ me he was yelling at me. anyway. hehehe i remember this kinda clearly... my mother took me over to toys r us one time and bought this funky wiffleball set. i was probably about seven. it was a big old plastic bat with a foam grip or something and a plastic wiffleball which, if you dont know what they look like, is a plastic ball about the size of my palm covered in nickel-sized holes. its supposed to be aerodynamic i guess. anyway dave and i went out in our back yard to play. i dont remember exactly how that went. ive never been the most baseball oriented sort of person and certainly never terribly coordinated... anyhoo i pitched it to dave he hit it i ran n tripped over my own shoelaces. cut my upper lip pretty nice. had to go to the doctors.. dont remember y tho.. it didnt need to get stitched or anything. hehehe anyway ill come back later. tht reminds me of the time my mother cut her foot. cya guys.
  • Current Mood
    relaxed relaxed
house and wilson bros before hos

next. increment. in the boring. story. of my life.

*remembers back- and back- and back... and back....*

lessee here. i remember getting my dogger. it was... me and my mother and my sister, i think. and then dave came later. we bought him from this shih tzu breeder- being little at the time, i dont remember any details really... just that i thought she had a big, very nice house and that we had to take the freeway to get there. hehehe following those instructions i couldve gotten him anywhere from san diego to japan, but hey... i was young and stupid. now im older and stupid. he was a tiny little bugger, maybe about half a foot long and that might even be an exaggeration. i believe they had a little box lined with a soft blanket and all the pups squirming and wriggling round (actually most of em were sleeping, except for him and one other) inside there. he was the friendliest one, and you know what they say... look for the ones w/ the personality... or something like that neway. he looked pretty much just regular, plain black and white then, but when he got older and matured, you can see that he's got lots of brown in his coat too. he's a pretty dogger. we bought him... i aint too clear on any of those details, again being a little kid who didnt really care about the paperwork at the time anyway, and after all this is all coming straight from my memory which sux, as y'all know. i do remember very clearly bringing mopsy out onto their front lawn w/ dave n waiting for my mother and sister to come out afterward. they had a nice lawn. it was a grey day out then, not raining or muggy or anything, just a grey sky and a tiny bit of a chill in the air. thats the sort of day i like. dave n i lay down on the driveway- we kinda put our feet together so we made something like a lil playpen w/ our legs n put mopsy in there. i remember him running round in lil circles, trying to climb over our legs and licking our faces. then im pretty blurry on the rest of the ride home. i remember when we brought him home though, and put him in this little cardboard box in the spare room. he was a tired lil pupper at the time and he curled up and went right to sleep on this old towel we'd put in there for him. i remember sitting there and watching him sleep for awhile, and i remember how soft he looked- it was a beautiful picture. my mother left to do something or other, but i just sat there stroking his back gently with one hand and watching him sleep. thats a very clear picture in my mind. my dad was at work. thats the only reason why this memory is so peaceful. hahaha thats mean but true. he came home and wasnt impressed at all w/ mopsy. in fact, if i remember right, he asked us why we didnt get a different dog. we were all very offended by that but ignored it and didnt mind because he wasnt yelling at us like usual so it was tolerable. tht was the way you treated my dad. if it was tolerable, even barely, you ignored it. i can tolerate a great deal of stuff. it really takes quite a lot to hurt or upset me, as my friends know.

remembering getting my dog... that reminds me of what i remember from my childhood. thts meaning when i was really really young, not like four or anything. ooo thisll be strange. the youngest i can remember *closes eyes, thinks* is lying in my mums arms as a tiny tiny baby and listening to her sing christmas carols. thats not a very clear memory, but its a very young one and thats what im going for here. she always would put me to sleep with christmas carols because she didnt know very many lullabies, so she sung silent night and all those classics. for awhile when i was younger, like eight or nine, i would go around the house with those songs stuck in my head and not know why. i used to sing them all the time. to this day, i still think it was because she got them all stuck in my head. sometimes when im bored i still have silent night pop into my head and find myself wanting to sing it. its quite odd. i also remember- and this is very strong- my sister holding me in her lap and reading to me. she tells me now that she read me many books, but the only one i ever really remember is teh little red hen. i remember having several very large hardback versions of those kids classics, bound in notebook spiral binding, stored underneath my bed and that id crawl under there to get one when i wanted her to read it to me. she would sit me in her lap in the rocking chair- i had an old, beat-up blue rocking chair in my room- and read the book to me. my sister did what all little kids always love, she did the voices for the characters. i used to laugh so hard when she got to the part where the little red hen says "and she did!" i remember that very very clearly. its perhaps the clearest memory i have from my entire childhood. most of my memories from then fade away for awhile. i remember always wanting to have a real christmas tree when i was a lil kid though. my dad had this old artificial one he just dragged out from the garage, dusted off, and assembled every year, n i didnt mind that for awhile, but when i got a bit older i really really wished we could get a real pine tree like i saw other ppl doing. i didnt care how big it was or anything. i just wanted the real thing and i didnt know why we couldnt get one. so i asked him why. i dont remember what he told me too clearly, but i do remember i was in big trouble for that. ive unconsciously blocked out all the really bad episodes with my father from my memory- well, all except for about two of them, but ill get to taht later. anyway i was a nervy little kid. i got some of his yellow legal paper (my dads a landlord. he had loads of that kind of stuff lying round) and tried to write out a petition for a real christmas tree. i was definitely nervy. he tore it up and got even more pissed off at me. needless to say i didnt get my first real tree until i was nine, when he left. i do remember- and this is one of the few clear nice memories i have of my father- being very sick as an infant and being carried out to the tree by my father where he showed me a china ornament painted in the shape of Bert from Sesame Street. he batted it w/ his finger and i remember being fascinated by the way it shined and reflected the light from the tree lights. to this day (or the last time i ever talked to him) he told me that i stopped crying then and went to sleep just fine afterward. i was sick lots even when i was a tiny lil baby. hahaha. dang. my memorys kinda fading right now... *thinks* ya i cant remember much else at the time... ill have to pick up on this further tomorrow. haha this is like my memoirs in freaking chatspeak. o well.
  • Current Mood
    sleepy sleepy
house and wilson bros before hos

hmmm.....

just discovered this really... well not actually i got it off katie (not me, another katie)'s livejournal that tommy sent me the address for and i was finally motivated to actually try and create one for meself. i dunno, maybe i'll keep this round and actually try and use it sometimes rather than xanga, which i am completely and thoroughly addicted to... see the thing is- nobody knows about this, not even my friends, not anybody- so i can say... basically whatever the heck i want here, w/out worrying about anybody getting pissed off at me. hahahaha. and now that ive stated that... i have nothing to say. theres ironic for ya. er... lemme think.

ok... thinking done. i can start by talking bout me. my names katie. im 15, a sophmore (is tht spelled "sophomore" or "sophmore"? im never sure... and that sort of thing matters to me cause im weird) at WCO high school and no, i don't remember what the C stands for... though i knew once. my mother named me katie because she heard some other little girl in the supermarket named katie and thought it was cute. hehe.. what kind of a sad naming story is that? :P o well. anywho to ward off questions early (tho nobodys gonna ask me any cause nobodys gonna read this... im really weird) i live w/ my mum Janny, my sister Lisa, and her husband Dave. i don't live w/ my father because he is a verbally/emotionally (pick one or both) fellow. he now lives in santa cruz w/ his wife (my stepmother) Lizjong or Li-Li. he doesn't like me- he'd rather send $20 four or five times a year than have a daughter. i never knew what i did to him in the first place but o well. nuff about that, it makes me sad.

my sister and i have five cats between us. they are jazz fonzerelli (named after the fonz), mickey, chloe, woodrow wilson (woody) and willy wonka (willy). we used to have minnie, jesse, muffy, and twiggy- but muffy and twiggy died of old age, and minnie and jesse escaped out the front door awhile ago. while i was at Girl Scouts camp for a few days, my sister and dave had a new mattress delivered. apparently my sister took the dog (o yeah, we have a dog too... his names mopsy... hes a Shih Tzu) w/ her into my moms bedroom and told dave to go watch the cats in their room. he decided hed rather help the very capable moving men lift the mattress instead. while he wasnt looking, minnie and jesse ran right out the front door and were never seen again. we made up loads of posters for them (well ok i actually made the posters, i still have em on my comp here, i think) then dave, kassandra and i went round the neighborhood stapling em to things. she and i made up a song for it too. i remember that. we walked round the block and up on davenport n feller hanging posters, singing, n clapping our hands on the refrain... dunno now how it went or anythin like that but it was a song she'd heard recently w/ the words switched so it fit the situation... hehehe... that was goofy but fun. we drove dave insane. we never found either minnie or jesse again, but later dave n lisa were on their way home from somewhere or other late at night and saw a cat scurry cross the road in their headlights that looked like minnie. so the next day dave n i went over there to look for the kitty in the hopes tht it was minnie and jesse was w/ it- we caught the bugger n brought it home n thought it was minne because it behaved loads like her, but then we took it to the vets and, well, we discovered either shed had a sex change or it wasnt our cat. it wasnt our cat, but we kept him anyway. thats willy. it was my idea to name him willy wonka- my mother wanted to name him willy nilly, but i thought that was just a little too girly for a boy kitty. anywhoo like i said ive got a doggie. hes actually the... third ive had. first i had my old dog snoopy- he was a shetland sheepdog i got when i was about four. he was my first ever friend. i made a big deal out of that in all the stories and stuff i wrote during that time in my life. hehehe. i wrote about how i used to sit by the front door (we have the same front door, same house... it's so weird) and stare out at the street and watch the cars go by w/ him and how wed "promise each other we'd be best friends forever".... all tht w/ a dog. i was either a deranged or a deprived lil kid, and i prefer deprived bcuz if i say deranged lil men in white coats may be showing up on my doorstep soon. anyway. i loved snoopy more than id ever loved anything in my life (well, up til that point, anyway.) that dog n i were like freaking lovers. i remember telling my mother i wanted to marry him. yeah... i was a strange lil thing. but i did love him. i trained him how to sit, lie down, stay, and flip those lil doggie biscuits off his nose and catch them in midair. i remember doing that w/ him in my father's bedroom. he had the master bedroom because he was constantly yelling at my mother when she was trying to sleep. either shed snore too loud, or shed mutter, or shed talk, or she'd do something. they obviously didnt love each other at all. i dont think they ever did really. they met online on a christian dating service. he was out east at the time and behaved really nicely and gentlemanly towards my mum so she fell in love w/ him (or thought she did, anyway). then he moved out here. she got pregnant and he turned into your regular first-class grade-A asshole. etc. i dont wanna talk about tht. but anyway, i remember training my dog in his room. id keep it real dark because the curtains would be drawn. it'd be cool and smell kinda musty. then we'd sit in the middle n i'd work w/ him. when he got tired and therefore bored we'd wrestle on the floor for awhile. he was the best friend i'd ever had. i used to go sit in my dad's closet w/ him among the ties and shoes that were sitting on the floor. i liked to be in there- i remember i thought it was so quiet and cool it was like another world. i had to be careful so that my dad wouldn't catch us, but as long as he didn't, i'd sit in there for hours at a time petting my dog and relaxing. i was a weird lil kid for sure. there was also a fuzzy bear-claw slipper in there. for some reason, i remember that extremely clearly. it was hairy w/ those big fake cloth claws poking out the end and there was only one of them. i always wondered what on Earth had happened to the other. i guess that must have belonged to my Dad because it isnt here any longer, but if you asked me what item i remembered most from my childhood it would prolly be that slipper. i also remember, and this is related somehow to that closet, reading one of those klutz for kids books about being a spy? something like that. anyway, it gave instructions as to how to move around one's home w/out being heard, such as walking next to walls so as to avoid creaky floors. if you want to turn a doorknob that squeaks and dont want anyone to hear you, the trick is to pull up really hard on the knob the same time u are turning it and it will be silent. i've never forgotten that either for some reason. i mustve learned it when i was like four but i've remembered it for 11 years... odd. anyway it also told how to stay in a room w/out being seen by pressing ur feet against the wall really hard and walking up it backwards w/ ur hands on the other side. never forgotten that either. i used to do tht inside my dads closet. id walk up the wall crab-style and perch myself up near the ceiling for awhile. again, my doggie would be right w/ me. he was like a son, i loved him so much. i used to cuddle him and play w/ him all the time. dunno if i ever told anybody, but it was my father that made me lose him. he used to kick my dog all the time and hit him, even when he did nothing wrong. one day snoopy turned on my dad, growled at him, and started to attack him. he bit his hand and drew blood. my father called the ASPCA on my dog. this was even afterward he'd gotten finished w/ beating my poor dog up. my mother lied to the man because if she'd said it was my dog's fault, they would have to shoot him. so they didnt shoot him but later my dad took him to the pound anyway and asked- he ASKED- for my dog to be killed. i was devastated. i remember hiding under the kitchen table (i was a lil kid) sobbing my heart out. neway i wound up getting an australian shepherd later named bonniebelle (as in "my bonnie lies over the ocean/my bonnie lies over the sea/etc"- my dad named her) she was a big dog, needed loads of room to run. she ate half our house including my dads watch which we never found... my mother wound up taking her to a no kill animal shelter. i wasnt as attached to her though. anyway then we got my dogger. but im gonna update more later. y'all can hear all about my life story and be bored to death by it. muhahaha. serves y'all right for finding it neway.
  • Current Mood
    excited excited